


The Cindergirl

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Series: Cindertales [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Cinderella Elements, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Moriarty's Web, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Fluff, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 22:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Once Upon Another Time...Sherlock Holmes has been dispatched to infiltrate the court of the notorious Butcher King, Jim Moriarty. In order to do this, he will have to put aside his better nature and become the sort of criminal he detests. But when this charade leads him to a beautiful young woman forced to sleep in the hearth of her family's kitchen, he finds himself in a race against time to keep her from The Butcher King's notice...Commission from bkst-tutu1b on tumblr; companion piece to Ashfool.





	The Cindergirl

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

**THE CINDER GIRL**

* * *

 

_**~ Trick of The Light ~** _

_ The first time he sees her, she’s reading.  _

Curled up in the corner of the kitchen hearth, a stump of a candle beside her, she looks like some faerie creature, a trick of the light conjured from candles and soot. Barefoot, her long, mahogany hair hanging down about her face, her expression is that of someone transported to another world. (Sherlock knows that his own expression often mirrors hers, when he is engaged by a book). She’s wearing an ugly, well-worn night-rail and a shawl, her delicate frame swamped by both. Two filthy, bare feet poke out from beneath its length; The clothing makes her look tiny. Delicate.  _ Vulnerable _ . 

The thought causes a twinge of consternation within him, accompanied by flutter of feeling which he tells himself he doesn’t recognise. 

_ There’s… There’s just  _ **_something_ ** _ about her that tugs at his intuition, but try as he might Sherlock can’t work out what it is.  _

That she doesn’t know he’s there is obvious: were she aware that a strange man is wandering through her family home then she would doubtless try to raise bloody murder, and then Sherlock would have to do something tedious like threaten her in order to keep her quiet. An image of that scenario flashes behind his eyes and, not for the first time in his current situation, he feels a flash of revulsion so visceral it surprises him. The thought of harming yet another innocent in his quest to bring Moriarty to justice makes him grimace, and (again) not for the first time he finds himself wondering why he ever let Mycroft talk him into this charade-  

_ So it really is fortunate, _ he muses, _ that this little Cindergirl has no idea he’s watching her, and will not, therefore, have to be silenced.  _

_ In fact, with a bit of luck he’ll be in and out of the Viscountess’ Donleavy’s boudoir before his bookworm has a chance to notice him at all.  _

His path thus chosen, Sherlock nods to himself. Tries to regain his focus. He will turn his attention from this odd little creature and deal with the matter at hand. So he sets to creeping stealthily up the stairs and into the upper storeys of the house, where Mycroft has assured him Donleavy’s correspondence with Moriarty is hidden-

He finds nothing-  _ turns out the Viscountess is not so foolish as to leave her papers in a place he can easily access _ \- but despite that, Sherlock cannot help but think that his incursion was far from a wasted trip. 

He finds himself thinking of his Cindergirl long after he’s back in his own rooms. 

He finds himself thinking of those bare feet and that thin frame. The intense concentration on her face as she read. 

He tells himself it doesn’t matter, but he can’t help suspecting that’s a lie. 

~{:-:}~

He makes inquiries-  _ only due to professional necessity, of course _ \- and discovers that this is Donleavy’s stepdaughter, Molly. 

According to the tireless Mary, she’s the daughter of Thomas Hooper and his first wife; in the wake of her mother’s passing she had been disinherited and abandoned to a life below stairs while her wastrel, alcoholic father slowly drinks himself to death and the Viscountess Donleavy gambles and shops her way through his wealth. 

_ The scandal of this Molly girl’s treatment is apparently the talk of London, though nobody, of course, has made any attempt to help her.  _

As Mary tells him all this she’s looking at him queerly; when he cocks an eyebrow at her in question- “Something you’d like to add?”- she merely shrugs. Makes a show of checking her weaponry. 

“Just surprised, is all,” she tells him. Her tone is carefully neutral, something Sherlock likes not one jot.  _ Nothing Mary says these days is neutral. _ “Not like you to ask about someone outside of a job, is it?” She adds innocently, making one of those maddeningly careless gestures which he knows are anything but. “Or is it that you think she’s going to be a problem, eh?”

Sherlock is tempted to make up some lie to justify his interest, but in the end he says nothing (Mary can, after all, tell when he’s lying). 

Rather he struggles back into his jerkin and strides out of John’s safehouse with as much dignity as he can muster, which isn’t really very much. (This is another common side effect of doing business with Mrs. Mary Watson). 

Moran meets him at the corner-  _ Mary uses the Baker’s Dozen Flesh House as her cover-  _ and when he sees him the other man guffaws with laughter. Claps him on the shoulder so hard he nearly dislocates something, grinning all the while. 

“Didn’t get what you wanted from the little strumpet, eh?” he booms and Sherlock forces himself to smile in return. Shrug. 

_ He’s had a great deal of practice hiding the way Moran makes his skin crawl.  _

“Plenty more whorehouses in London, aren’t there?” he says instead. “Why don’t we try somewhere a bit more exotic, eh?”

Three hours later he and Moriarty’s right hand man are sitting in Black Irene’s, sharing a meal and a girl as the Irishman regales Sherlock with tales of his exploits, apparently unaware that he’s giving him plenty of his boss’s secrets. 

Though he listens with half an ear and remembers everything, Sherlock finds the only thing that keeps his interest is still the thought of Molly Hooper reading under the stairs. 

**_~ As Meat Loves Salt ~_  **

Weeks pass, then months, and slowly Sherlock becomes used to this new life he’s leading. 

While the things he witnesses whilst acting as Moriarty’s right hand turn his stomach, he consoles himself that he is, at least, able to direct The Butcher King’s wrath in ways which the reckless, vicious Moran won’t. 

_ More than one life has been saved because it was Sherlock Holmes who whispered in Moriarty’s ear, and not his darling Seb.  _

Though he hates his criminal career, and though he loathes the nickname which has come with it-  _ The Butcher’s Dog, it’s preposterous _ \- Sherlock finds nevertheless that this life has its pleasures. For as he climbs in Moriarty’s estimation he finds himself entrusted with some of the man’s more… delicate projects, much to the other criminals’ annoyance. One of these delicate projects involves keeping contact with Viscountess Donleavy, who has been using her insights at court to leak The Butcher King information on the Prince Regent’s attempts to capture him: For this reason, Sherlock is often dispatched to the aristocrat’s townhouse, ostensibly to sell her gossip but in reality to receive it- 

_ And every time he comes to the house, he finds himself looking for the Cindergirl. _

_ He tells himself he shouldn’t bring any attention to her but he still searches for her at every call.  _

~{:-:}~

It’s on his third visit to the house that he meets her face to face, and once it happens he finds himself wishing it had not. 

For though she clearly thinks him handsome- her quickening breath and pulse are sure indications- she also clearly isn’t impressed with him. Oh no, she makes that obvious. Perhaps he seems too cocky to her, or too familiar with her stepmother, but she makes it obvious that she doesn’t trust him-  _ At all. _

While Sherlock knows that this is probably a wise reaction, he finds himself irritated beyond all belief by it; After all, were he free to be honest he could tell her of his work for the Crown, of how he’s trying to help his brother bring down a vicious criminal empire which is leaching the city dry. 

_ She would, doubtless, be impressed by him then, he can’t help but think.  _

Given that he can’t tell her any of that, however, and given that he is- admittedly- remarkably childish when deprived of what he wants, he elects to do the next best thing. 

He elects to tease her. 

He is aware that it is an unhelpful decision, but he really cannot help himself. 

_ Self-control has, after all, never been his forte.  _

So every time he visits, he seeks her out. Every time he seeks her out, he stands a little closer than is quite seemly. Every time he stands too close he smiles his most flirtatious grin, and he has the pleasure of seeing it bring a becoming blush of red to her cheeks, however much she might scowl and deny it.  _ However much she might try to deny him _ . Were he to believe that she truly didn’t want him close then he would desist, but despite her gruff words and glares, he can’t help but notice that she too, stands too close. That she too, eyes him flirtatiously. 

_ On more than one occasion he’s caught her staring at his lips, or at his behind, and my but that’s a gratifying thing... _

And it’s on one of these days, when she’s been doing this for what feels like an hour and the damn servant dispatched to fetch her stepmother still hasn’t arrived that Sherlock loses his cool. Finds himself unable to take anymore. 

Without warning he leans into her and whispers the thing he’s been wanting to say to her for months: “It doesn’t suit you, you know.”

The arch look she shoots him is flirtation personified. 

It makes his pulse pound and his stomach clench and the worst of it is, she’s no notion what she’s doing to him. 

“What doesn’t suit me?” she drawls and at this Sherlock has to grin. Move closer. 

The heat of her reaches out to him, it envelops him as he breathes the words into her ear. 

“This enforced timidity,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t suit you. You’re no more naturally meek than I’m naturally humble.”

And as he speaks the words he takes her wrist in his hand, feels her pulse throb. She’s staring at him, flushed and wide-eyed, and despite all his years of training, and all his experience, Sherlock finds himself flushed and wide-eyed too. _ His heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest.  _ Acting on instinct he leans in closer and she matches him; when he cocks his head she does likewise, her lips a mere hair's breadth from his. Time seems to slow down, what started as a tease turning now into an intimacy-

And then, at the worst possible moment the servant returns, informing Sherlock that the Viscountess will see him now. 

Instantly the spell is broken. 

Molly leans away from him, her expression troubled and her movements harried, and without any explanation she turns and hurries out of the room. 

Her cheeks are a spectacular shade of puce. 

Shaking himself and trying to regain his focus, Sherlock follows the older woman out of the scullery and up the stairs, towards the Viscountess’ sitting room. He sits in her parlour and he drinks her brandy, listens to her chatter; He is, fortunately, more than able to convince her she has his full attention, and that is all she needs. 

In his head though, in his head he’s replaying that moment with Molly, his little Cindergirl, and though he knows he shouldn’t, he finds it warms his bloody more than the brandy does. 

He thinks of her life, and the things she’s lost, and he thinks of all the things which might be in his power, even as a mere Butcher’s Dog, to give her, and with that in mind he starts forming a plan.  

_**~ Treats ~** _

_ The first thing to be ensured,  _ Sherlock muses,  _ is that Moriarty doesn’t turn his attention to her. _

_ While The Butcher King may not actively interfere with the lives of his men unless he has to, it would still behoove Sherlock to keep Molly beneath his notice.  _

With that in mind- and with the lady’s permission- he elects to make his supposed attachment to Mary public, bringing her to any social engagements which Moriarty might require he attend, and lavishing her with the sort of jewels and furs which a smitten beau might use to court his sweetheart. 

Given that her cover is that of bawdy-house madame and gossip, Mary takes to this role like a duck to water, securing herself a place in Moriarty’s affections with little effort and then ensuring that she keeps herself there. She flirts. She gossips. She pretends to enjoy the entertainments of his court, such as they are. 

_ And if her Sherlock is to occasionally dally around the Viscountess Donleavy’s house, and occasionally to bring sweetmeats and treats to one of the maids there, why then what of it? _

“He’s keeping her sweet, isn’t he?” Mary laughs when asked. “Not wise, having no insider in Donleavy’s house, not with the high opinion that one has of herself.” And she coos in Sherlock’s lap. Tousles his hair and kisses him. “If you can’t trust The Butcher’s Dog,” she grins, “then who can you trust?”

Moriarty, Moran, Smith, Milverton, they all laugh at her words. 

Mary is content to let them. 

They all toast to Sherlock and his excellent taste in women, while Mary smiles along, the very picture of feminine coquetry. The very picture of the happy vixen. 

_ Sherlock’s little Cindergirl never knows she’s being thus debated, but given the situation, that’s probably for the best.  _

  ~{:-:}~

He sneaks into the house and into her Mother’s Library. (Servants’ gossip has told him that it was once her favourite room in this house). 

He looks at the books which were once well-read and well-loved and from them he deduce what books she might like now. He then goes out and finds them, the best, most beautifully bound versions his coin can provide. 

These he buys and these he gives her- Or rather, he leaves them in the fireplace, in nooks and spots where she is sure to find them. (He doesn’t rightly know why, but he finds himself uncomfortable with the idea of giving her these gifts in public; the sweetmeats and the sugared figs are treats to be sure, but the books… The books feel different. Intimate. 

She might not know it, but the books reminds him of the first night he saw her. 

So he hides them and makes a fuss of everything else.) 

If the servants nudge one another and smile when he gives these treats to her then, well, Sherlock can at least be thankful that they do not say anything to his face. That she’s guessed who is behind her meagre library’s enlargement is made obvious on the day she attempts, haltingly, to thank him, her averted eyes and bit lip telling him more than words ever could about the effect these gifts have on her- 

Sherlock means to be suave, he _ means _ to be smooth and charming, but when she looks at him from beneath her lashes and says those words- “Thank you, sir…”- he finds he can’t keep a handle on himself. 

Like the veriest green boy he bolts for the door and leaves her there, stammering. 

_ He feels like an absolute idiot.  _

Were John with him then he’d roll his eyes and call him an idiot, so it’s a small mercy John isn’t about. Nor is his entirely-too-observant wife, for that matter. 

The next day though, he’s summoned to The Butcher King’s Court and Sherlock’s tiny store of mercy promptly runs out. 

_**~ Mouse-Flesh, King-Flesh ~** _

“She’s a pretty little thing,” Moriarty tells him. 

Flanked by Moran and one of his taller associates, both of whom are between he and the carriage door, Sherlock can only blink. Raise his eyebrows. 

_ He hasn’t an inch to move or manoeuvre, he can’t help but note.  _

“Who’s a pretty little thing?” he asks, trying to keep his calm, and to his horror The Butcher King nods out the window to Molly, who’s walking through the market with one of the maids, fetching the day’s shopping for her mistress.

She’s humming to herself, smiling. 

She clearly has no idea what danger she’s in.  

Sherlock tries to keep calm, to keep his head-  _ He can’t afford to give anything away, not right now. Not with her in danger. _ So feigning a lecherous grin he nods to Moran and Moriarty. Chucks his chin at Molly. 

“She’s a pleasant little handful, alright,” he says. “But surely that one-” He picks a pretty girl at random from the crowd- “Would make a better tumble, eh? Bit of meat on her bones, bit of fire in her belly? The little maid’s a pretty thing but she looks like a good tup would break her in two-”

“Don’t lie.”

The words are said carelessly, casually, but they are all the more chilling for it.

A year in The Butcher King’s service has taught Sherlock to fear that bland tone above all others. 

For that is the tone Moriarty uses when he has already decided what needs to be done. 

Sherlock’s heard it before. 

Sherlock’s obeyed it before. 

_ He silently vows to himself, here and now, that he will not obey it when it comes to Molly. _ So-

“How long have you known?” he asks instead, because allowing Moriarty to display his genius is one of the few things which consistently tempts the man. Genius, he knows, always wants an audience and Moriarty’s genius rivals even his own. And if he can turn Moriarty’s attention onto himself for long enough that Molly’s out of danger- 

Moriarty clucks his tongue though. “Oh no,” he says. “No games for you- No silly questions.” He leans forward, a small smile on his face that would frighten the Devil himself. “Seb’s going to hop out of this carriage and go get me that little bit of mouse-flesh,” he says. “We’re going to pop her in between us, and then we’re going to make you watch what we do to her until you tell me everything I want to know, is that clear?” 

And he giggles. Moran joins him. 

Not for the first time in the last year Sherlock feels absolutely sick to his stomach. 

For a moment Holmes closes his eyes, brings his focus together; As much as tight quarters are a danger to him in a fight, they’re a danger to his opponents too- As a former mercenary Moran should know. 

And if the charade of his life as The Butcher’s Dog is truly over, if he’s been given a choice to save Molly or go down fighting, well Sherlock knows which one he’ll choose- He chooses his Cindergirl. 

_ He chooses Molly, and he chooses ending this now.  _

So as quick as lightning, he’s out of his seat and coming at Moran. He grabs the larger man and hauls him out of his seat, using him as a human shield even as his hand slides inside Moran’s inner coat pocket and lifts the blade he always keeps secreted there. 

He feels the knife slide into his grip and despite himself Sherlock smiles. 

Moriarty wouldn’t be so foolish but Moran has always been predictable; within seconds Sherlock has turned his own weapon on him, digging it viciously into his side and then dumping the larger man on top of Moriarty. Both men let out a satisfying yelp. Yanking open the carriage door and hurling himself bodily out into the street-  

He hits the ground on hands and knees. Hears the neigh and whinny of the carriage horses panicking. The swearing of other men on the road as they demand to know what the devil he’s about. 

From the corner of his eye he sees Molly and the other maid coming to a halt, staring at him (though she doesn’t recognise him yet) and rather than let her become embroiled further in the situation Sherlock struggles to his feet. Screams at the top of his lungs- 

“Murder!” he yells. “Murder! This man just threatened the Prince!”

And he points dramatically to Moriarty’s carriage. 

Any threat to a royal being a hanging offence, the entirety of the market (including Molly and Moriarty’s carriage) scatter like so many pigeons, none of them wanting the trouble of tangling with the royal guard. Sherlock watches the carriage take off and as he does he grabs a boy off the street. Holds up a gold sovereign and gives him an address. “Go to John Watson the apothecary and tell him Sherlock Holmes wants to see him,” he tells the boy. “Meet me at the Viscountess Donleavy’s townhouse and I’ll double that.”

On the promise of the sovereign the boy does as he’s bid while Sherlock, his face turned grim, sets out towards the townhouse. 

_ He can only pray he beats both Molly and Moriarty there.  _

_ The consequences if he does not do not near dwelling upon.  _

~{:-:}~

John arrives half an hour later, with Mary, Mycroft and half the Prince’s Whisperers in tow. 

At the Watsons’ insistence the Whisperers have come in plain dress, and a contingent of their number are to stay at watch over Molly. (Mycroft snorts his disapproval but does not outright object). 

The rest Mary and Sherlock split into two groups, and begin systematically working their way through every safe-house and property to which Moriarty has access. (Turns out that Mary was even more adept at gaining the confidence of The Butcher King’s Court than Sherlock and her list of possible hiding places is even longer than his.)  They search brothels and pubs, fine mansions and lowly cellars. Every location they search and come up short merely allows Moriarty more time to escape and if that happens… If that happens then Sherlock doesn’t want to think what mischief the Butcher King could enact upon those for whom he cares. 

_ He can’t seem to stop thinking about the way Moriarty looked at Molly. _

So they keep going. Keep moving. 

There are skirmishes with Moriarty’s men, though many have not heard of The Butcher’s Dog’s subterfuge and are thus easily misled and hence taken. 

Others refuse to give up easily and the death-toll for those groups rises higher and higher as the day progresses. Word gets out and some scatter, independent operators like Long Irene and Sir Milverton disappearing like dust on the wind. 

They are not missed. 

They are not wanted. 

_ For Sherlock, now his cover’s been blown, there’s only one thing he cares about and that is keeping those he cares for safe.  _

In the end though, it’s that heart which Moriarty claims not to have which traps him and sets Sherlock free. For Holmes find him in the shadow of the Rake’s Back Clock-Tower, not far from Molly’s dwelling. 

Sebastian Moran’s dead body lies heavy in his Butcher King’s arms. 

Tears stream down Moriarty’s face; When he sees Sherlock he turns vicious, and the ensuing fight shows beyond question how James Moriarty earned himself the nickname The Butcher King.  _ He nearly kills Sherlock bare-handed _ . Had John Watson not arrived with a contingent of the Prince’s Whisperers then he might have succeeded- 

The men manage to subdue Moriarty but not before he hisses a final threat. Not before he spits out that Sherlock had better check on his “little scrap of mouseflesh.”

Aching, injured, Holmes nevertheless refuses to go home until he has seen his Cindergirl. 

And so he and John end up breaking into her home in order to ensure that she is still in one piece-  

She is. 

~{:-:}~

Though she is suspicious, she nevertheless helps John treat him. 

Through her and the apothecary’s gentle (and not-so-gentle) ministrations his blood-loss is staunched and he is stitched up well. 

Sherlock doesn’t really care, so long as he can be assured she is safe. 

As he and John prepare to leave in the early light Sherlock can’t help himself: he leans over and kisses her cheek. Tells her thank you. Her flesh is soft and warm beneath his lips, and where he has touched her is streaked with soot and warmth. 

He finds he likes it. 

As they head out into the early light, he feels rather than sees John’s grin.

When he turns to look at his friend, that friend’s eyes are dancing. 

“So, have you spoken to her father yet?” he asks, eyes twinkling, and though Sherlock would like to tell him to get bent, he allows that he has not. 

_ He hasn’t really thought of anything, beyond keeping her safe.  _

“Do yourself a favour,” John tells him sanguinely. “Send in Mary and Mycroft to do your talking: God only knows what that bint Donleavy will do if the Archduke Holmes the Younger arrives on her step.” 

Though he knows his friend is teasing him, Sherlock muses that there might be more sense in his suggestion than he’s allowing. 

After all, if he’s to be married then surely he should be married to one he loves, as he’s realising he loves his Cindergirl? 

Judging by the look on his face, John’s worked out where his mind has taken him. 

“Oh, bugger off John,” Sherlock snaps rather than deal with it, and at this his friend laughs aloud. 

**_~ The Ever In The After ~_ **

The contracts are drawn up; Mary speaks to the family. 

Mycroft adds his weight to the negotiations, but Sherlock is aware that neither the Viscountess Donleavy, nor Molly’s father, are all that interested in his bride-to-be’s welfare. 

He is not, therefore, surprised, when they do not attempt to press for a good marriage settlement. 

He doesn’t let that distress him overmuch, though: he can settle money and property on Molly once they’re wed. And once they’re wed, said property and wealth will be beyond the Viscountess Donleavy’s avaricious grasp. 

_ Molly will, at least,  _ **_finally_ ** _ be safe.  _

And so one bright, golden morning he gets in the carriage, rides to her house to pick her up for the wedding. When he sees her walking out of that house in which she had been so unhappy he finds his heart beating so hard that it becomes hard to breathe. (She looks so beautiful, he can’t help but think. 

It’s almost as if she were made to walk free). 

He’s dressed carefully for the event, and it shows; when she sees him her eyes widen, her cheeks staining red in embarrassment. For the first time Sherlock finds himself relaxing in her presence, happy to finally be able to show her who he really is. 

“You’ve shaved,” she stammers when she sees him and he doesn’t even try to curb the grin he gives her. “And you’re… You’re not going to Tyburn, are you? Are you, love?”

The worry in her voice, the affection, makes his heart beat harder in his chest, fool that he is. 

“Love?” he says, rather than try to explain  _ that _ and risk looking like an idiot. “I think I like that,” he tells her and to his delight she smiles. Grins. 

_ There’s such affection in her eyes that he thinks his heart might burst.  _

“Now let’s get moving, shall we?” he adds. “Wouldn’t want to keep His Majesty waiting, would we?”

She nods and slowly, slowly, he leans in. Takes her chin in his hand. 

Slowly, slowly, he presses his lips to hers. 

She trembles where he touches her, and Sherlock fancies he’s trembling too. (He really can’t help it). “Shall we get married, love?” he asks and at that she laughs. Smiles. Nods. 

“Yes, please,” she tells him and at those words his heart takes flight.  

There will be problems and worries, conflicts and difficulties. He’s aware they don’t know each other that well, and he’s aware that they have a lot to learn about one another, a lot that can’t be learned before they stand in front of a priest. 

But even with all that, Sherlock finds that he can’t be worried, not really. Not about him and his Cindergirl. 

He holds her hands as the carriage heads to the church and Molly has eyes for nobody but he. 


End file.
